Beautiful Death

As the Megaskyr of Macedon, she has reason to fear Hades. Wild beasts turn on their handlers the moment they're freed from their cages, and Hades was certainly hers to control many years ago. Exiled on the distant planet of Earth, he is caged if not exactly leashed for her power. He must not be allowed to return. Ever.

She is the supreme weakness.

You ask me how I can smuggle contraband into Athens, use my contacts to sneak people out, and publicly take part in demonstrations against the Pantheon and MedCorp policies yet still call Beautiful Death, the Marshal with over a thousand kills, my best friend. It’s easy, I say. I owe her my life.

In the early days of the pandemic outbreak, I tried to protect my wife and teenaged daughter by entering our names in the vaccine lottery. Only the ultra rich could actually afford to purchase the vaccination directly from MedCorp. As a lowly school teacher, I didn’t have the hundreds of thousands of dollars required to purchase even one vaccination, let alone three. I’ve never won a single lottery in my life, not even to save my family.

I watched my daughter die first. Oh, the suffering she went through before the virus claimed her life! While caring for her, my wife contracted the virus, too. Terrified, I watched her endure horrendous convulsions and skyrocketing fevers. I fell to my knees and thanked God when she survived.

Then she started murdering other people.

I learned, then, that the lucky ones die. Isn’t that a twisted sort of irony? I wasn’t lucky enough to win the lottery; my wife wasn’t lucky enough to simply die.

Survivors of the virus are twisted beyond recognition. Craving blood and flesh, they ravage the innocent and kill without mercy or grief. Until later, that is, when the monstrous beast slips back beneath the surface of their skins.

Sarah remembered everything she’d done. In horror, she looked at her lovely hands and remembered claws rending a child. She looked in the mirror and saw the muzzle of a monster buried in bloody entrails.

Locked up like a wild animal in the basement of our house, she begged me to kill her before it could happen again.

I tried. I swear I tried! With a butcher knife in my hand, I looked down into her beloved face, her hazel eyes glistening with tears, and I couldn’t do it. Even knowing what she was, what would happen in a few weeks when the monster walked in her body again, I couldn’t kill my wife. Even when she cursed me. Even when the love in her eyes died and turned to hatred.

I fled her condemnation and roamed the streets. What was I going to do? I couldn’t leave Sarah. I couldn’t kill her. All I could do was wait for her to transform again and become her first meal.

I met Isabella at the food drop off set up by the government. She was just a scrawny, starving little thing, yet the meanest street hoods backed off to let her pass. Older than my daughter by a few years, she had big, dark eyes that spoke of torment and horrors beyond human endurance. Yet she endured, somehow, alone and friendless.

Food was scarce, and more often than not, the starving people fought over the meager supplies. Rumors abounded of trucks attacked before they even arrived. Even those of us not yet contaminated by the virus were turning into animals. It sickened me. The lawlessness of desperation became utter chaos. People killed each other for a slice of bread or a blanket. The helpers were slaughtered along with the weak, the sick and the old. Only the strong were going to survive the chaos.

I already knew I wasn’t strong enough. Hell, I wasn’t strong enough to end my wife’s torment, so how could I survive the madness on the streets? I could perhaps save this one young woman, though. I could give her a place to hide from whatever tormented her. I could share the food supplies we managed to squirrel away in the basement. It took several days of coaxing to win her trust, but finally I brought Isabella home with me.

Looking back, I wonder if I sought her deliberately. If I saw the merciless strength in her gaze and latched onto her, already planning, hoping, praying that she might be able to help me.

Because Isabella took one look at my wife and whipped out a long, wickedly sharp knife. Sarah thrashed in the chains she demanded I use in an effort to keep her beast contained. The monster in her screamed in rage, but I saw the truth in her eyes. My wife wanted to die. She wanted the monster killed, immediately, before any more blood could be shed.

Isabella hesitated, though, and I’ll always love her for that one moment of compassion. She looked at me and asked if I was sure. I couldn’t speak, but I nodded. I didn’t stop her.

One deep gash in my wife’s throat and it was over. Rather peaceful, actually. Sarah took my hand before she died and whispered that she loved me. I saw forgiveness in her eyes for my failure. She gazed at the young woman who killed her and smiled with gratitude.

And when Isabella turned away to leave, I saw pain and fear and regret in her eyes. Not for killing my poor wife, but for the loss of a friend. She thought I would be angry with her. Instead, I threw my arms around her and swore to always be her friend. I would never turn away from her in horror. I would always be grateful that she was strong enough to give my wife a merciful death.

She saved me that day. She saved my sanity, redeemed my cowardice, and blessed my wife with peace. I owe Isabella everything. And maybe, just maybe, I can save her from the killing hatred she carries in her heart.

Because if she can’t let go of that hatred someday, she’ll become a monster, virus or not.